


Gravity and Calamity

by Elywyngirlie



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: After the Fall, Cuba, Gen, Hannibal misses Will, Longing, M/M, Post Season 3, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 17:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11719215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elywyngirlie/pseuds/Elywyngirlie
Summary: A one shot about how Hannibal would go on if he and Will were separated at the cliffs.And what he would do if Will suddenly showed up at the door, if the teacup suddenly came back together





	Gravity and Calamity

Hannibal ran the scrub pad over the rim of the plate before rinsing it off and placing it in the rack. He shook his hands, water droplets flinging, before wiping his hands on a towel and turning around to wipe down the counter.

Meticulous as always.

One plate, one set of silverware, one wine glass, one water glass. All clean and ready again for tomorrow.

When he would use one coffee cup, one small French press pot, and one plate for breakfast.

The rest of the set remained in the cabinet, gleaming new and unused. Always waiting for a companion to come down and to be used.

Objects have no meaning unless we attach it to them. A plate is just a plate is just a plate until it becomes the canvas for a work of art.

Hannibal wiped his hand across his brow and crossed the space to stand on the veranda. The Havana evening sun burned brightly as it kissed the surface of the sea. Strains of music from below floated up to his apartment and he smiled faintly. He hoped to procure tickets for the next performance of Tristan und Isolde in a few weeks.

He often wondered if it would be one ticket or a pair.

Hannibal sat on the veranda, waving the tumbler of whiskey under his nose, and soaked in the raucous laughter and vibrant music from below. The smoky and oaky notes of the amber liquid clung to the air and plucked the chord of mourning within him.

Not everything survives a Fall.

Mankind lost Paradise.

As did Hannibal.

He went through the rest of his evening routine, rubbing vitamin E oil and shea butter into his scars from the Red Dragon’s bullet and teeth, and from Will’s careless--careful?--push. Hannibal rested in his certainty that it was deliberately meant. He had embraced it with whatever remained of his heart, clasping Will to him, reveling in the copper tinged soapy smell on his skin, before the cold sea clawed up and separated them both. A hard angry crash that Hannibal had not intended to survive.

He spent a week combing the shores, hoping to recover Will.

He was never found.

The pieces of the shattered teacup could never come together now. Entropy continued its inexorable march forward and for the first time, Hannibal felt helpless. (Not the first. But he shook off the cobwebs of the those ravenous days after Mischa)  Sleep evaded him now, even the scant few hours that he needed, and he loathed the coldness of his bed. He found himself on the veranda again, listening to the restless murmur of the sea below. His apartment was mere steps away from the dock so that he could flee should the authorities ever turn up at his door. Chiyoh had sent him here after tending his wounds.

He would forever bear the scars of that night.

He ran his fingers down the rough wood of the chair, the threat of a splinter intoxicating in this insipid moment. He listened to a car rumble down the road, backfiring once, and the insistent yap of Sr. Ramirez’s chowhound. He wondered how long he would wear this funeral suit.

He wondered when food would burst into flavor in his mouth again.

He wondered how long it take for him to find the joy in a simple aria, in the feel of silk against his skin, the power when his blade split flesh and secrets spilled forth.

Hannibal wanted color in his life again. He forgot how to reclaim it.

He sat in his chair, his face unreadable, as the sun rose, bathing everything in a warm rosy light. The city woke up, buses chugging to school, children scrambling after, mothers yelling “mijo!” and waving lunch boxes.

He stood and shrugged it off, darkness crumbling and crashing to his feet.

The teacup would never come together again. There would be no moment in time.

He would find enjoyment in simple pleasures. Starting with coffee and eggs in a basket. He had to. The black dog could not have him by the throat anymore.

There was a knock at the door.

Hannibal frowned, hand slipping into a robe pocket, fingers grazing the knife.

And then he ambled in, all rumpled and bemused, a halting lilt to every step. It took all of Hannibal’s strength not to let his jaw drop, not to rush to Will and gather him in his arms.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” he managed to get out. Will chuckled wryly.

“You’re a difficult one to find.”

“As are you. I couldn’t find you after the cliffs.” Hannibal cocked his head, eyes darting around, wondering if Jack Crawford were waiting outside. He thought about his go bag in the corner and how inelegant it would look to race down the street, robe flapping behind him.

But exciting.

Will walked around the apartment, the scar on his cheek a vivid white. Hannibal examined the younger man. He only had a small backpack, a thicker beard, and longer hair.

“I was taken out by the rip tide. By the time I surfaced, you were gone and I was far out to sea. I found a buoy and clung to it, activated the beacon, until I was picked up by a fisherman.”

“Not the Coast Guard?”

“Hmmm, too far from the nearest station,” Will agreed amiably. He tucked his hands in his pockets. “Your trail was hard to pick up on.”

“Deliberately so.” Hannibal smiled. “Excuse my manners, Will. Would you care for coffee?”

“I just got in from Santo Domingo, so yes.”

Hannibal padded to the kitchen, muscles tensing as he expected Jack to leap out of the corner and brandish his badge.

“Jack doesn’t know I’m here,” Will said quietly, coming up behind him. He lingered just behind the breakfast bar as Hannibal moved around the kitchen, preparing the coffee.

“And why are you here, Will?”  Will hesitated before he spoke, long lashes sweeping delicate rosy cheeks. He was thinner, Hannibal noted, his shirt sagging on an already too slender frame, the bones from his wrists knobbier than Hannibal remembered. The sinewy strength he remembered gone.

So Hannibal added pig to the morning’s menu and fired up the stove, a deft twist of a knob and woosh. Water burbled in the kettle and Will cleared his throat.

“That night was illuminating.” Hannibal lifted his head, picked the kettle off the stove and poured it over the grains.

“Did you go back to your cabin and your wife, Will?” Will let out a snort and shook his head, long curls brushing the Raphael dreamed cheeks.

“There was no cabin for me to go home to. Molly served me papers before I even got out of the ICU.”

“And uncle Jack just let you go?”

Will pulled out a stool and sank into it, folding bruised knuckles. Hannibal’s brow knitted together and Will offered a tight smile.

“Uncle Jack put me under protective custody. I escaped. Not with ease, of course.” He lifted his hands again and jerked his chin toward the coffee. “Is that ready?” Hannibal huffed, always so rude his Will, and poured out two cups, laying out the cream and sugar.

“And you are here? To what?” he asked casually. Will caught his hand, held it, squeezed tight.

“I want to see.”

 

Another plate, another set of silverware, another wineglass was set out that night. The pescado en escabeche exploded in his mouth, almost overwhelming his senses, as he withdrew the fork from his lips. Will sighed, elbows on the table.

Fingertips grazed as they listened to the music below, an impromptu dance in the courtyard, as peach and azure graced the sky above. Hannibal felt like drawing for the first time, hands itching for a pencil.

Will didn’t argue when Hannibal offered the other side of the bed. The couch was too small and the wood floors too hard. He settled in, already apologizing profusely about the sweat. Hannibal lay out extra towels and listened to the shower run. The sharp foul scent of Will’s aftershave clung to the air. He smiled.

And he fell asleep easily, one hand laid tentatively on Will’s hip. The other man rolled over, presented his back, and Hannibal listened to the steady rise in Will’s breathing until he followed shortly after.

And when he woke suddenly, the bed empty, his heart careened to a stop. The air only smelt of pine and hibiscus and sea salt. He blinked rapidly, wondering if he were falling into something else, some sort of madness. He laid a trembling hand on the pillow, sighing happily at its warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> In the original version, I have him touch the pillow and it's cold. So it's all been a dream but I decided not to be that terrible.


End file.
